Dead at night,
my mother dead,
driving rains drummed
troubled dreams, when, in the
dark and din outside,  
a discordant sound dared
to split the night
and tear the tissue of
our sleep.

Was it just the freight
cars' squealing wheels
running along the river track
in the Croton yard, as my father sighed
in his seared and splintered sleep?

I stood in the dark,
in underwear, face pressed
on the cold, wet pane,
searching the shadows
as torrents tore down
on this surreal and soaking scene.

*              *              *

The night after my mother died
the robins were born in her small pine
at a dripping, drenching, dream-like hour,
singing against the dark, dark time.

August 1989

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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